


sorry, right number

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Booty Calls, F/M, Fantasy, Friends With Benefits, Hook-Up, Jaime is the Leetle Spoon, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 03:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: Jaime sends a dirty text to the wrong person ... or maybe it’s the right person, after all.





	sorry, right number

Her phone _bleeped_.

Brienne had brushed her teeth, removed her bra, and was already in an oversized tshirt. This was not Social Time. This was Sleep Time or (maybe) Private Time. Whomever it was could wait.

It bleeped again.

It sounded suspiciously like Jaime’s tone.

She picked it up.

_are you busy_ said the first.

_come over i’m so fucking horny _said the second.

And Brienne blushed to the tips of her ears. This wasn’t — they hadn’t — of course she’d thought about it, she was about three minutes away from some very serious contemplation of that exact idea, but —

Was he drunk? He had to be drunk.

Brienne muted the volume, resolutely. She’d just ignore it. She wouldn’t reply, Jaime would be embarrassed and grateful when he came to his senses, they could continue being friends-only-friends, and she herself would continue having Private Time in her flat, alone. That was how it was meant to be and that is how it would be, world without end, amen.

But the idea of him _wanting_ her ... fuck. She had one hand down her pants before she could argue with herself. He was beautiful and insolent and tall enough to look her in the eye, more or less, and he did flirt with her — _yes_ she drew up her finger to rub it on her clit, _yes he did_ — but he flirted with everyone, including men, it was his natural way —

The silenced phone glowed bright. She grabbed it with her free hand.

_Please come_ he said.

And that was enough. Brienne sat up and found her shoes and keys and was out the door.

Jaime opened the door wearing very few clothes, and he looked — shocked? Confused? “Brienne?”

He was hard under those shorts, gods he was _already_ _hard_, how often had she wondered what he’d look like? Taste like. How he would sound.

Brienne sat down, legs unwilling to hold her up anymore. She was acutely aware of her unkempt clothing, all of a sudden. “I — um — I got your text. Texts.”

He swallowed. “That wasn’t ... I mean. I didn’t expect you to show up.”

“I didn’t expect you to send me dirty texts.”

“Maybe I’m a little drunk,” said Jaime, sounding and looking sober.

Brienne nodded. “I thought so. I thought ... I thought you’d change your mind.”

He took a deep breath, appearing to settle on a resolution. “You traveled a long way just to turn me down.”

She stepped close in and kissed him — and he kissed back.

He was already looking languid; he kissed her again instead of answering, and his hands slid under her shirt to find her breasts, letting out a sound that was nearly a growl. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.” 

Longer than she’d wanted him? She pushed her thigh against him and he rubbed back.

Too quick, too soon, not soon enough, his hand found where she wanted him. “You’re so wet.”

“I was thinking of you. Before — before you messaged me.” It was easier to say this in the dark, with his fingers on her, inside her ...

He made an interested noise. “Really. Do you do that often?”

“No.”

“Lies,” he said, and gently bit her waist. He kept working at her cunt, slipping in and out. “Tell me what you do. Have you thought of this?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“You — your cock ...”

He smiled; she felt it. “Good. What more? Do you think about my mouth between your legs, my tongue on your cunt, here? or maybe here?”

She moaned.

“Later,” said Jaime. “Later. There’s plenty of time, now that you’re here.” He sounded fine — totally normal — and she hated him — she wanted to take him down.

She hooked her thumbs on his shorts and pushed them down, stroking him, slowly with just the tips of her fingertips. “You’ve done this, thinking about me.”

He made a choked noise that she took as a _Yes_.

“Did you think about my hands on you? My mouth on you?”

“Yes — yes, please, gods Brienne, so much—“

Why waste time, then? She rubbed it along her lips and tasted, delicate: then took him into her mouth as much as she could, deliberately relaxing into it.

She’d never really understood why some women liked this before now. It was always a chore at best, if not something disgraceful, degrading. But Jaime was different. He ran his hand into her hair and rubbed his thumb on her cheekbone, saying her name; he held his hips still (she could feel the muscles tremble along his thighs) and the taste of him, the feel, was warm and dense and slightly bitter. She flexed her tongue around the vein, sucking a bit, closing her eyes. This wasn’t embarrassing or shameful, not like this with him breathing fast, twitching from the pleasure she was giving him, that she wanted to give him — his cock heavy in her mouth ...

“Brienne,” he said, sounding strangled. “I hate to tell you this but I want to be in you and you need to stop, to stop very soon ...”

She sat back, letting him go. “Do you want to ...”

“Yes,” he said, firmly. He crawled on top of her, holding himself up, and looked — frightened?

She didn’t want him to look like that, not ever, not about her. “Are you sure?”

He was.

And when he slid inside, where no one had been in so long (too long), Brienne cried out, scratching into his back when he tried to move. “You stay,” she said. Stay in me, stay this close, stay where I want you ...

He kissed her. “Always.” His voice was thick. “Every day you’ll have me.”

That was almost definitely sex talk, not reality: but she’d accept it, she’d accept anything if he kept — she gasped — every time he moved it was too much and not enough. Why wasn’t he deeper? Why didn’t he move harder? She squirmed. “Jaime ...”

He swore and kissed her and finally finally reached that place where her body tightened and clenched, she felt it move through her — he made a strangled groan, his thrusts erratic as he finished.

He shifted off soon, wrapping his arms around her, kissing more. “I’m so glad you showed up.”

“Don’t you mean _came?_” she said: but he was already asleep, and all that was left was for her to curl around him and sleep, too.


End file.
